Cliché
by AntipodeanOpaleye
Summary: It was a cliché, yes - and yet it could what he's been missing his entire life. One-shot


Title: Cliché

Author: AntipodeanOpaleye

Rating: PG-13

Summary: It was a cliché, yes - and yet it could what he's been missing his entire life. Sawyer?; One-shot

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize from any other source either doesn't belong to me or is a purely coincidental occurrence. Anything that you've never seen probably belongs to me. I write for enjoyment and no copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Just a little something that popped into my head - it would probably be wise to disregard the ending of 'Deus Ex Machina' to some extent; for purposes of general plausibility. I leave the pairing to your imaginations.

Reviews are greatly appreciated :D

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Clichéd; how the pain melded so perfectly with the pleasure. How willing he was to endure not only the euphoria, but also the agony. How beautiful it was.

He always had been a connoisseur of sorts; a man of high expectations and weighty demands, settling for nothing less than perfection.

He'd been wrong; perfection existed only here, in the now - in them.

It was something that his stolen wealth could not have purchased, something that his primed and immaculate lies could not have explained - something that even, with his rage and sense of vengeance as an impetus, he could have searched the far corners of the globe and never have found.

He hadn't imagined it - never in his drunken fantasies, nor in his disillusioned bouts of substance-induced insight. He'd never fathomed the depth or the complexity. He'd never had a reason to.

But he was glad for that. Such contemplation led to preconceptions, and such assumptions could very well have spoiled the effect. And it was the effect he'd craved most, initially - a numbing satisfaction, a contention for dominance, for power. A certain liberating submission in the admittance that he'd been bested.

The thrill of conquering was second only to the rapture of surrendering. He craved control. He required release.

It was a clash of wills; a struggle of the conscience, of the mind - a war of the heart, and a battle of the soul.

It was a slaughter of his subconscious - of his memories - and he yearned for more.

He could remember vividly his morally-threadbare existence; his 'life' before the crash. But when they were together - he could forget. And that was all he had wanted. Temporary ignorance. A melancholic neglect.

Yet his priorities had become a tangled web of selfish requirements and a mutual gratification that both derived from their time together. From their passion, from their ardor - from each other.

The experience of hot flesh encountering itself upon another became something more than just physical contact; their bare skin was an image of silk so soft it might unravel at the lightest touch, a sculpture of glass so delicate it might shatter with the slightest mistake. The scent of sweat mingling with dirt and the fragrant aroma of the tropical flora surrounding them; it was no longer a pungent reminder of their less-than-desirable circumstances - it became an exquisite perfume, a natural incense of their connection with each other. The taste of salt, of earth and coppery blood, was more than an organically wretched zest - it was savory; a flavor that redefined satisfaction.

His head spun after each encounter, sickening him; ravaging him as nothing had ever before. He was left utterly exposed following the rendezvous, and he despised it. He was loath to feel so powerless; he was terrified to place his trust in someone so completely. This nakedness was torture, yes; but he found himself becoming slowly more dependant upon it. Addicted to it. And over the past weeks, he'd evolved into a junkie of the worst kind, for he craved not substance, not something he could obtain through any means of his own - no, he craved something that must be willingly relinquished, and that he could relinquish in turn.

It was animalistic, primitive at times - their vying for supremacy and command, and at the same time sensitive and compassionate on levels that he pondered whether either of them, especially himself, would have been capable of in the real world. He assumed, however, that the island had asserted itself upon them all as it had him, and the personality he had assumed from day one was beginning to wear down amidst the crumbling façades of those around him. They were all changing as time wore on, but he never perceived this so clearly as he did when the two of them came under cover of darkness into the forest and met, leaving shortly before the dawn broke, swollen lips and tattered garments the only visible remnants of such trysts as they returned to their daily routines in anticipation of the coming of night once more.

As they did now.

The book in his hands was ragged, and the weak spine binding it was beginning to willingly allow singular pages to escape its grasp. It wasn't that he abhorred reading, it was simply that he'd never been one to set aside any time with which to do so before now. He adjusted his mismatched glasses, fidgeting oddly on the sand beneath him, his movements sluggish in the receding nature of the granular beach. Returning his bespectacled gaze back to the yellowed and water-spotted page, he read the same line for the seventeenth time. It was useless, trying to rivet his attention to the volume he held, and he tossed the book agitatedly over his shoulder into a small pile of select items from his collection personal articles; the ones that he used regularly and thus kept close at hand. He shook his head, removing the frames that were sliding down his noses and placing them also atop the pile behind him, though doing so much more gingerly than with the book. Sure, he wasn't exactly fond of them, but he tended to play the matter up with more drama than it warranted - besides, they allowed him to preoccupy himself without suffering through the immensely painful sensation of having his head trampled. Generally, he considered it a fair trade.

He required a distraction, something to engage himself in - something, anything to keep him from feeling so damn jittery. He was beginning to think he was obsessed, that it was unnatural how consumed he'd become with the concept of his nightly engagements; either way, the furtive glances he caught from across the beach at intervals throughout the day were enough to assure him that at least he wasn't the only one.

But that didn't make him feel any less anxious.

He wandered, as he was wont to do, through the torrid jungle near where the towering trees and vines met the open waterfront, his mind preoccupied as he cut through the wild brush and vegetation, climbing over overgrown bushes and avoiding the strangely ominous weed with crimson spikes protruding from it that littered the path he was currently traveling upon. Only a little further.

He came upon it in due time; the place he frequented often before sunset when he was feeling rather inattentive in regards to constructive behavior - a small grove with a natural spring that was warm enough for bathing and relaxation, and large enough to be comfortable and enjoyable. He'd considered it a spectacular find, and was almost certain that he alone knew of its existence, which was even better. He stripped bare, edging slowly into the therapeutic depths of the water, immersing his body completely in the pool before submerging himself, only to pop out moments later, spewing a fountain of liquid from his lips. He chuckled at the juvenility of it, and opted to lean dependently against the smooth rock on the far side of the small spring, extending his legs outward and stretching until he lay prone beneath the surface of the water. He tossed back his head, closing his eyes for long periods, opening them, diving back under the water, floating over to the rocky shore again, and repeating the cycle for what could have been minutes or hours on end. He paused only when, upon lifting his lids, he noticed the flickering of the waning sunlight on the horizon. Dusk was upon them; and darkness would soon reign on their little island. His wait was nearly over.

But not quite.

He still had time to kill, and in so he rested his head against the rock once more, not noticing that a small section of it was protruding into his neck; not caring that the moss under his ear was more slimy than he would have preferred; disregarding that the portion of his wet, naked chest that remained outside of the water was beginning to chill in the evening breeze that swept through the trees. He simply remained there, contemplative and strangely serene, until the time came for him to fulfil the plans he'd already made for the evening. He sighed, smiling, as that time drew closer.

And as he lay in that secluded hot spring, he began to entertain the notion of camaraderie sprung from aversion; of love born from hate.

It was a cliché, yes.

And in that instant, he was willing to surrender his soul to it.

Scared the shit out of him, too.


End file.
